


too late to be late

by deathlessaphrodite



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (there is pining), (very minor), Angst and Feels, Drinking to Cope, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Set between s1 and s2, Smoking, Vomiting, after the archive quarantine!, loneliness feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:09:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathlessaphrodite/pseuds/deathlessaphrodite
Summary: He wanted to sleep. But not really. Even being back had made his hands itch, every creak or shadow making him flinch. Prentiss is dead, he said to himself, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.He’d made Jon say it, when he’d been panicking. Say it: she’s dead. He remembered Jon’s loosely curled fist pressing into his shoulder, the way his whole body had shaken, how thick his voice had sounded when he repeated the words. Martin had been worried he was going to hurt himself, or aggravate some of his injuries, at least. She’s dead, she’s dead. Jon’s palm, flat against Martin’s chest, grounding both of them.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, past Sasha/Tim if you squint
Comments: 28
Kudos: 96





	1. a metaphor for your having died

**_“There are days when everything / feels like a metaphor / for your having died / There are days / when nothing does.”_ ** **\- Mark Bibbins, from** **_13th Balloon_ **

The night their quarantine ended, Martin Blackwood went home for the first time in… well, a long time. Four months? Is that right? It felt longer. It felt _much_ longer. 

It was past midnight, and the night tube had stopped running, so he ended up shelling out for a taxi. The driver barely said anything the whole time, which Martin thought a small blessing. _Small blessings_ , he thought, _That’s what it’s all about. Just look for the nice, small things._ But there hadn’t even been very many of those, recently. Trying to find them was like pulling teeth. 

His flat wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been - _should’ve_ been, rightly. Sasha had volunteered to go round to make sure everything was alright, and she’d clearly vacuumed or _something,_ because the place wasn’t nearly as much of a mess as it should’ve been. He’d prided himself on being pretty neat, generally, but he remembered leaving plates in the sink, and at least one mug of half drunk tea on the coffee table, before he’d left - all, blessedly, gone. Just a pile of bills on the floor and some cobwebs. Both dealt with easily enough - or he hoped so, anyway. He really didn’t like the look of some of those bills. 

He wanted to sleep. But not really. Even being back had made his hands itch, every creak or shadow making him flinch. _Prentiss is dead,_ he said to himself, _she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead._

He’d made Jon say it, when he’d been panicking. _Say it: she’s dead._ He remembered Jon’s loosely curled fist pressing into his shoulder, the way his whole body had shaken, how thick his voice had sounded when he repeated the words. Martin had been worried he was going to hurt himself, or aggravate some of his injuries, at least. _She’s dead, she’s dead._ Jon’s palm, flat against Martin’s chest, grounding both of them. 

_Alright,_ he thought, _that does it._ He grabbed his keys and made his way back out into the street, around the corner, and into the Tesco Express he knew he could buy food at. He was going to make the biggest pot of spaghetti bolognese anyone had ever seen, sleep be damned. 

He considered picking up a bottle of wine, and then decided against it. There was already a headache pushing at his temples, not helped by the lights in the shop. The cashier was also silent, as she checked him out. He made sure to smile at her as he left, and got nothing back. _That’s alright,_ he thought, _People don’t need to be smiling all the time. It’s fine._

But he wanted someone to smile at him, really, wanted someone to touch him gently. He wanted Jon’s hand to be pressed against his chest again, would do anything for the simulacrum of affection it had been, knew it was pathetic, wanted it anyway. 

It was drizzling by the time he got outside again. There were some very drunk girls on the other side of the street, wearing heels so high they hurt Martin’s feet just to look at them. They looked like they were playing tag, dodging one another and laughing - _A disaster waiting to happen_ , Martin thought. And, of course, one of them fell, so hard Martin expected her knee to burst open like an overripe orange - but after a moment of cradling her leg, the girl just laughed, her friends laughing with her. They helped her up and limped off together. They never even noticed the strange man with the shopping staring at them. Suddenly, Martin wanted to cry. 

He wanted someone to _notice_ that he was crying. He wanted for there to be someone waiting for him when he got back to his flat, wanted for them to ask him if he were alright, wanted them to tell him gently that it was okay if he wasn’t. He felt very bitter all of a sudden, and that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. So he went home, and cooked, the method and normalcy of it helping somewhat. 

He was starving by the time the pasta was done, but he didn’t mind. It was a real feeling, a tangible feeling, something he could fix. He almost felt too tired to eat, but he forced himself to. 

He remembered cooking for Jon and Tim and Sasha in the breakroom, and then spending the better part of an hour trying to convince them all to eat. The pain medication made Tim feel queasy, but he needed to eat something to be able to take it. Sasha simply hadn’t felt hungry, as she’d said she hadn’t since the attack, which Martin could understand. And Jon… was Jon, he supposed, stubborn and paranoid and perpetually annoyed. _And in pain,_ Martin reminded himself, _very much in pain._

It made him tired even to think about it. Like battling with children, and him the only grown-up, except they were all grown-ups and they should’ve known how to take care of themselves. That was a bitter thought, and he didn’t like the taste of it. He didn’t want to be alone to take care of himself - why should he expect anyone else to? If he could’ve gone home with Jon, he would’ve. If he could’ve kept all of them in the Archives, where he could see them and take care of them, he would’ve. He was _good_ at taking care of people, if they’d just let him, for once. 

He wanted to take care of Jon, in particular. He wanted to call him _baby_ and _sweetheart_ and a dozen other infantilizing, patronising pet-names that Jon would probably hate. He wanted Jon’s gratitude almost as much as he wanted his love. And there was a part of himself, one that Martin usually recoiled from, that wanted Jon to take care of him, for once, for Jon to be as gentle and as careful with him as Martin needed someone to be. 

He tried to put those thoughts away, but it was hard, once you got started. He did the washing up and put the leftovers in the fridge, took a proper, hot water, shampoo-and-conditioner shower for the first time in four months. He realised that the bed surely needed fresh sheets, and found some to put on - the ones he’d brought from his mum’s, that had holes in them - and then, when he couldn’t think of anything else to keep his hands busy, he finally tried to get some sleep. 

The empty space next to him felt sharp and cold, sharper and colder than he remembered it feeling. He thought about Jon’s hand on his chest again, how delicate and birdlike his fingers had been, what it might feel like to hold it in his own hand. It didn’t help. It only served to make him feel colder. He tucked his head into his pillow, and tried not to cry, and attempted, with an awful, hopeless desperation, to sleep. 

  
  
  



	2. the visitation rights of a memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night their quarantine ended, Tim Stoker offered Sasha James a ride home. 
> 
> “No,” She said, her voice dreamlike and calm, “No, thank you.” 
> 
> “You sure?” He was tired, and sick of trying to keep it from his voice. 
> 
> “Yes. Yes, thank you.” She still had that tone about her that made Tim uncomfortable. She’d been a bit out of her own head since the attack, which made sense, but it still made worry burrow into his gut. Like a worm, he thought while he got into his car, huffing a mirthless laugh.

**_“I’m learning a lot lately / about the visitation rights of a memory, / and how it feels to have joint custody of yourself / with yourself.” -_** **Rachelle Toarmino, from** **“Beating & Rotting All At Once,”** ** _That Ex_**

The night their quarantine ended, Tim Stoker offered Sasha James a ride home. 

“No,” She said, her voice dreamlike and calm, “No, thank you.” 

“You sure?” He was tired, and sick of trying to keep it from his voice. 

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” She still had that tone about her that made Tim uncomfortable. She’d been a bit out of her own head since the attack, which made sense, but it still made worry burrow into his gut.  _ Like a worm,  _ he thought while he got into his car, huffing a mirthless laugh. 

It was stupid, to own a car in London, but it was a luxury he allowed himself. There wasn’t any tragic secret about it - it was just his car, and he liked it, and it cost him far too much money to run it. But it was nice, not to need to rely on the tube or the bus like Sasha and Martin did, so he kept it. 

He whacked the heating up as soon as he got the car started. It'd always been cold in the Archives, but since Prentiss, it had been impossible to get warm. He could blame his hands shaking on that, to a point. He could blame it on the pain, too, or the meds. But it wasn’t any of those things, he knew.  _ The first thing you need to do is be honest with yourself,  _ his therapist had said to him, after Danny had died. 

Instead, he decided to get roaring drunk. He started with the half-full bottle of stale red wine he still had from when Sasha had come around for dinner. That had only been a few days before the attack.  _ How young we were,  _ he thought, mocking,  _ how naive.  _ Fucking Martin and his fucking worms. 

He necked the four-pack of beers he found in his fridge so quickly that a part of his brain - one that sounded like only a mockery of himself - said,  _ Hey, slow down there, bud.  _ He remembered saying that to Martin, after a particularly rough workday. It’d been the only time Martin hadn’t told him to ask Jon to come with them to the pub, and the first time Tim had heard him swear - some deviation on  _ He’s a fucking pompous prick, is what he is.  _

Tim started to feel  _ very  _ drunk on the third or fourth shot of gin. He didn’t even like gin, and he definitely did not like taking straight shots of gin, but it had been at the front of his drinks cupboard. Something else left over from when Sasha came around. He’d bought it when he was still a little lovesick over her, thinking he could impress her by having the good stuff just laying around. That was before he’d learned that when Sasha said she liked gin, she meant  _ whichever’s cheapest,  _ and also  _ mixed with so much tonic you can’t even taste it.  _

He missed her, in that way you miss people when you’re drunk, but also because he knew things would be different now.  _ He  _ was different now, could feel it. He’d woken up with the paramedics standing over him, and he’d felt it - like an overstretched rubber band, ready to snap. And if it didn’t snap, it’d sag, out of shape, unfixable. 

He picked up his phone to shoot Sasha a text - thought about trying to be funny,  _ u up? ;),  _ the normal charade, but settled on  _ come round?,  _ hoping she wasn’t already asleep, feeling very selfish and very drunk and knowing if someone else didn’t do something it was only going to keep getting worse until he did something stupid. Or threw up, or fell asleep. Whichever came first. 

_ No. :-).  _

_ Rude,  _ Tim thought.  _ And unlike her. _ He’d have to make sure to keep checking in with her - and then he needed to stop worrying about Sasha, because he was literal seconds from throwing up. 

He managed to make it to the bathroom, which was a small (very small) blessing. And then he dragged himself to the sofa, and stared up at the ceiling and vaguely imagined Martin telling him _You’re not supposed to drink while you’re on those pain meds, Tim,_ in the same tone of voice he used when Tim drank too much Red Bull or did his knee in from jogging too hard. Everything was swimming. He was too warm, but he couldn’t be bothered taking his jumper off. His elbow had started to hurt, where one of the worms had gotten into the joint. 

Everything went dark, after that, for a while. He didn’t think he slept, was just vaguely aware of it being warm and dark and quiet. It’d be nice if it could stay warm and dark and quiet forever, he thought. Just for things to be a little easier. 

When he opened his eyes, Danny was sitting in the chair across from him. Tim had lost count of the number of times he’d seen his brother sitting in that chair, whether it was after falling asleep drunk or going to the kitchen to get a glass of water in the middle of the night, or stumbling from his bed to the door, still half-asleep and late for work. 

He tried not to blink. It was nice to think it might’ve been a dream. A long, weird dream, and the pain that was radiating through him was just because he slept weird. The headache pushing at his temples and the bile rising in his throat was just a hangover. Life was normal. Life was good. 

It wasn’t, of course. He forced himself to get up and drink some water, and take another painkiller, because his knees had started to hurt again, and then he locked the door. Checked it twice. 

He threw himself back on the sofa, and closed his eyes, and swore he wouldn’t open them again until the morning - or until he stopped feeling hungover, which might have been well into the afternoon. 

He did not look at the chair again. He was worried there would be someone sitting there, someone who wasn’t Danny. He was worried that they would be looking at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i'm really enjoying writing all of them being very sad


	3. brave girl (never the lucky person)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha James would have put her headphones in and tapped her feet in an off-tempo rhythm on the floor. She might have dug around in her bag for her chapstick, sent a text message to her mum, been vaguely annoyed at the condensation on the window getting her blouse wet. The thing that was supposed to be her did none of these things. It simply sat, and waited, and looked at nothing in particular.

**_“CHORUS: Brave girl. / KASSANDRA: People never say that to a lucky person, do they?” -_ ** **_Agamemnon,_ ** **Aeschylus (trans. Anne Carson)**

The night their quarantine ended, the thing that was supposed to be Sasha James went home. It got the bus. It sat in the third seat from the front, next to the window, the place that had been Sasha James’ favourite place to sit. It sat with Sasha James’ bag on its knee. Sasha James would have, slightly selfishly, put it on the seat next to her, to stop someone from sitting there, but the thing that was supposed to be Sasha James did not. 

Sasha James would have put her headphones in and tapped her feet in an off-tempo rhythm on the floor. She might have dug around in her bag for her chapstick, sent a text message to her mum, been vaguely annoyed at the condensation on the window getting her blouse wet. The thing that was supposed to be her did none of these things. It simply sat, and waited, and looked at nothing in particular. And when the bus reached its stop, it got off. 

Going up to Sasha James’ apartment, it crossed paths with a neighbour, who smiled at it. It did not smile back. As it unlocked Sasha James’ door, the phone in her bag buzzed - a message from the boy, Tim. It sent some message back, something vaguely approximate to what Sasha James would have said. 

That was its job. To sow discomfort. A splinter under the skin - almost not there. Someone pointing at an old photograph, asking if you remember this or that or there, when you don’t, can’t, won’t. 

Sasha James had owned lots of books, but the thing that was supposed to be her did not read any of them. Nor did it worry about the dust that had settled over the last two weeks. It did not read the note Sasha James had left for herself on the fridge -  _!!!Remember!!! Call Anna E.  _ \- and it did not open the fridge to eat. 

It sat. And it waited, to get back to its job. It would be so easy. They were all such a mess anyway, it would barely need to do anything at all, except be there, and watch, and listen, and smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she is UNSETTLING she is STRANGE she has it ALL


	4. still looking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Jonathan Sims did after their quarantine ended was buy a pack of cigarettes. 
> 
> He felt weird. Weird was a bad word for it, an unsatisfactory word, but it was the one that came to mind. He had a kind of buzzing under his skin, a nervousness in his gut that wasn’t quite anxiety. And a cigarette would help.

**_“_ ** **_Even when I look away I am still looking.”_ ** **-** **Richard Siken, from** **_Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light_ **

The first thing Jonathan Sims did after their quarantine ended was buy a pack of cigarettes. 

He felt weird. _Weird_ was a bad word for it, an unsatisfactory word, but it was the one that came to mind. He had a kind of buzzing under his skin, a nervousness in his gut that wasn’t quite anxiety. And a cigarette would help. 

It did, a little bit. He felt more settled, a little less - jumpy, he supposed. He hadn’t counted on how _loud_ the world would be, after so long in the Archives. The loudest thing there was usually Tim, and even he’d been quiet, since Prentiss. 

He ended up getting a cab, with a frustratingly chatty driver, who he gave far too large a tip because he couldn’t be bothered waiting for his change. When he got to his front door he panicked, thinking he’d left his keys at work. The thought of having to go all the way back, or find a hotel, or make his landlord open the door for him, made him want to cry. He was so _tired_ and everything was so _loud -_ and then he slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, and remembered Martin saying: _Got everything? Did you check your desk?_

His flat was quiet and dark, and _empty,_ blissfully. It smelled musty, from the dust and from not having the windows opened for far too long. He didn’t want to _think_ about the state of the milk in his fridge. 

He lit another cigarette, found a bowl to tap the ash into - he’d gotten rid of all his proper ashtrays, the first time he quit - and forced himself to drink a glass of water. He thought, distantly, that he should take some more painkillers - he needed to, if he ever intended to sleep. But he also knew that they made him tired, and fuzzy, that they seemed to knock his ability to stand or read or focus his eyes out of him. And there was still that itch under his skin, saying _Go back, go back, go back._

Making his way through to the living room, he tripped on the slightly-loose linoleum in the kitchen and landed, hard, on his knee. The pain seemed to bleed through him slowly - not the same small, biting pains the worms had left him, but big and slow. It made him feel a bit more like a person again, for some reason. 

He thought, _I’ll just stay here for a while._ He’d get up again, eventually. He thought about what Martin would’ve said, if he’d seen Jon take a fall like that. He’d probably have made some sympathetic noise, and then said, _Hey, you alright?_ That was what Jon wanted him to say, at least. He didn’t want anyone else to say it to him, he realised - just Martin. Martin’s warm hands, and his warm voice, and his warm eyes, and his ability to care without pitying. 

_It’s the meds,_ Jon thought, _they make me weird._ He tried to move, and pain blazed up his leg into his hip - that was the worms. Some of them had gotten into his hands, some into his chest and the skin around his collar bones, but most of them had stayed around his hips and his legs. He looked like the ugliest connect-the-dots on the planet, he thought, and then laughed, grimacing slightly. 

He felt like crying, but… he’d never been any good at that. He’d feel better, afterward, he knew, but the tears wouldn’t come. Just that itch to get back to work, slightly dulled by the cigarettes and the pain. He managed to make himself sit up, and rested his head against the doorframe. 

At least he was home, he thought, but that didn’t really mean anything. This place had never felt particularly welcoming - he’d never _tried_ to make it feel welcoming. His office was the homiest place he could think of; Sasha had stuck a picture of them all at the Christmas do to his computer, with blu-tack, and he’d never bothered to move it. All the slightly-chewed ballpoint pens in his desk were actually Tim’s, stolen in cold blood. And the tea Martin would bring him, always in the yellow, Winnie-the-Pooh mug, always balanced just in his eye line. 

He didn’t know _why_ Martin always brought it in that mug. He was pretty sure it actually belonged to Sasha, or had done, once. It certainly wasn’t his favourite - he didn’t even know if he _had_ a favourite, actually. Maybe it was _Martin’s_ favourite, he thought. Maybe Martin was the kind of person to give away his favourite mug, for a small, everyday kindness. 

He was overthinking it, Jon knew. He had a tendency to do that. But when he’d woken up, after the paramedics had arrived, it was Martin who’d spoken to him first, who’d told him to stay calm. His attention had clearly been split between Jon and Tim, and he’d had a soothing hand on Tim’s shoulder. Jon had felt so _relieved,_ that they were all alright, or that none of them were dead, at least, and then the pain had hit him. 

He thought about how warm and solid Martin had been, that night he’d found Jon panicking in the office. The way he’d very gently unfurled Jon’s hands from the tight fists he’d made of them, the way his thumb had just barely brushed over the palm of Jon’s hand, his firm, kind voice saying _She’s dead, Jon. She’s dead. Say it._ She’s dead, she’s dead -

He’d never thanked Martin, for taking care of him. Taking care of all of them. That was supposed to be his job - he was the boss. He was supposed to take care of them, to know what to do, to… to figure it out. Not to rely on anyone, because he was supposed to be relied on. 

He dragged himself up, and threw himself down on the sofa, too hard, the injuries on his chest and shoulders twinging. He’d suffer through the pain. He needed his head to be clear, if he was going to unravel this mystery. He’d solve it, he’d fix it. It was what he was supposed to do. He lit another cigarette, and thought, _it’s my job. I’ll figure it out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i've really enjoyed writing this weird little sad thing, and I hope you've all enjoyed reading it. thanks for all the comments and kudos <3

**Author's Note:**

> title is from this quote:
> 
> “Where are they now / that they are even too late to be late? / Where is the way home on the map? / Where is the goddamn map?” - Mike White, from “The Dead Fathers,” published in The Kenyon Review


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